


The games we play

by Serane



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 5+1, But Mostly Smut, F/M, I'm Sorry, PWP, like... almost no plot, maybe a little plot of you squint, pure filth really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serane/pseuds/Serane
Summary: Five times they fuck, and one time they make love
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 27
Kudos: 193





	The games we play

1

It is messy, and clumsy, and not at all what she thought her first time having sex would be.

Not at all what she imagined who it would be with.

Kylo Ren.

He looks as surprised – maybe even more so – as she is, when on impulse she kisses him, roughly, wetly, with just _this_ amount of teeth, as if to remind him what they _are,_ what they _do._

(not this, usually) _  
_

Just to shut him up, to not longer have to hear his taunts, about her background, about her parents, about everything that she locks tightly away in a box.

Brute man that he is, he smashes the box, picks up the pieces inside, examines them, stuffs them under her nose.

He needs a second or two to process what she is doing, what they are doing, but then he catches on quickly, and his tongue is in her mouth, in her throat, thick and winding and sinful and she chokes on it and can't breath and her head spins.

Then he is knocking her to the floor, and she's too far gone to appreciate that he cradles her head protectively, because she is busy ripping at his clothes, too many layers on him, too difficult to peel them all back.

She gives up and settles on his pants, determinantly ripping something and _touches_ him and he pulls back, snarling, his hair is wild, and when did _that_ happen, and then he descents on her again, all brute force and a tinge of desperation.

He retaliates, his fingers are thick and rough and so _deep_ inside her, the stretch new, and uncomfortable and not unwelcome and definately worth the look of wonder, of soul shattering awe that storms across his face.

As if he can't believe they are really, really doing this.

She spreads her legs wider to confirm that _yes_ , they are.

And then he fumbles with his pants, pulls them down just far enough his legs, and his dick hits her thigh, smearing wetly against it and and she is dizzy with the heady feeling of falling, or flying, or both.

He grabs her hands, laces their fingers, and his face contorts in pain or desperation or something else and he waits, _waits_ until she plucks at their Bond, impatiently, as if to spur him on.

It _hurts._

It hurts in a way that she feels invaded, both in body and mind. Like he is trying to split her apart, break down all her walls, crack her open, all her protection of where she is soft and vulnerable inside.

He ruts and pants, and it's agony and bliss, all rolled into one.

He pulls out abruptly the last second, and that too, _hurts_ , but he is groaning like a dying man, and spills over her stomach with a curse that sounds like a prayer and she'd be grateful for his consideration if she wasn't so distracted by the way his full, dark lips betray the hardness of the man.

The stretch, the burn, the pain, it all pales in the enormity of what transpired.

Yet it is him, his eyes, that are suspiciously watery afterwards.

And he apologizes profusely, a chaotic tumble of words.

For hurting her, for making her bleed, for it being over too soon, for the dirty floor and the rocks that poke her back.

He even cleans her up, his dark clothes hiding the traces of their deed better than hers.

One could argue he took something away from her, but you can't take something away that was freely given.

It is her that limps away from this round, but she still feels like the winner.

2

The second time it happens, the disbelieving look on his face, the incredulity in his eyes when she strips her top and reveals her naked breasts to him for the first time, is worth everything, even her worries about inadequacy, about not being _enough._

His teeth clack shut, on an insult or a taunt or something softer, she will never know, but she did manage to shut him up, quite effectively judging from the way his throat works now, how he swallows, hard.

The sound he makes when he sees them, an audible exhale as noisily as a whine, straightens her spine, and puts a glimmer in her eyes.

There is power in rendering Kylo Ren speechless.

He rips his eyes away for a second, up to search her gaze, but can't hold it, dips it lower again, _stares and stares._

Then he falls to his knees, and if that doesn't bring him to exactly the height of her chest, to worship her...-

She grabs his hair, a fistful of unruly curls, and yanks him close to where she needs him, exactly the same moment his hands close around her waist, reverently.

It's almost comical how he produces a condom this time, sheepishly, as if he didn't really believe this might happen ever again, but on the off chance it might, to be prepared.

There are red areas stretching across his sweaty chest, on his neck, on his face, and his hair is clinging in a chaos to his forehead and she loves, loves how she gets to see Kylo Ren, masked und untouchable for everyone else, so human and debauched, and _messy._ Only for her.

This time, he makes sure she comes, pulls out every trick known to mankind, his hands, lips, dick, working hard to get her off, and she comes twice under his onslaught, hesitant at first to let go, to give him this kind of power over her, but enthusiatic and _free_ the second time he coaxes her over the peak, his face lighting up with pride over her twitching cunt, and... ok, maybe joy, all making it worth the nakedness of the moment.

When she leaves him this time, it's not limping, but with her head held high and her face glowing.

3

She doesn't want to, really doesn't, but eventually she breaks down and seeks him out the third time, dictates time and place and when she arrives, he is already there, subdued, and impatient, unsure what to make of this, prepared as always.

He opens his mouth, but he doesn't get to speak, doesn't get to ruin this as she _descends_ onto him like a vulture, venting all her pent up fury and frustration onto his broad body.

He lets her, wordless understanding that this is not necessarily about him, or maybe it is, maybe it _all_ is, but there is something that she needs to work through, to let go in a way her current life doesn't allow, to let off the steam inside building for far too long.

She rides him this time, mindless and determined to chase her peak, and she has to close her eyes against the wonder in his, the softer tones she can't place and doesn't want to.

She hopes the rough ground scratches his back, and leaves marks there that purple and bruise and hurt for _weeks._

Still, he is getting better at reading her, grasping what she wants, what she needs and his tenderly gliding hands suddenly grip her breasts roughly, stroke her ruthlessly until she screams an endless litany of profanities and curses and _yes, right there, like this_ falls from her lips.

He seems to have accepted that this is happening on her terms, her demands, and he has no say in it, eager to provide what she needs, taking what he can, what she leaves him to pick up discarded, in return.

She bucks against him, his dick so incredibly deep in her, hitting her cervix in a way that isn't entirely comfortable, but the closeness of being stuffed to the brink, the look in his eyes when she peeks makes it all worthwhile.

She rubs herself, partly for spectacle, to taunt him, to see his eyes darken further and his head thrown back.

Partly because she needs to distract from this, distract herself from what this is, from what this has become, almost against her will.

Partly because she is so so close, and the emotional weight of the deed is becoming unbearable to sustain much longer.

He bats her fingers away roughly, but his voice is soft when he growls at her 'let me'.

It's his hands that break her, steady and unrelenting, that push her over the edge and into oblivion but it's her name on his lips when he comes, his dick twitching so incredibly deep inside her, a hoarse, longdrawn groan, that truely shatters her.

When its over and they both clean themselves up self-consciously, silently, and put on their clothes again, and she isn't all that sure anymore who won this round.

4

The fourth time almost doesn't happen, her life too grim, her reality, their shared reality not leaving any room for what they want to do when they meet.

Or maybe it was what they should do, taunt, circle, stab, hurt.

But they don't go for the kill anymore, their fights lacking the usual flourish and drama, as if they are both exhausted and fed up with putting on a show.

She doesn't know anymore if they are really meant to fight this big, cosmic, galaxy defining war or if they are meant for something else entirely, something completely at odds with the crackle of a lightsaber or the grunt of a stab – accidently?- aimed too low.

For days and weeks, she feels him prowling the boundaries of their bond, always lurking, always watchful for an opening.

But when she leaves openings in her walls, fractures to peer through or holes wide enough even for a man his size, he recoils, as if afraid to take this step, to define what this is any further.

So it is once more her that cracks in the end, that gives in and summons him, but when she dictates time and place again, he sends her other coordinates, same planet, different city.

She toys with the idea of refusing, of spiting him, but what would be the point? She still can't let him win, but she doesn't want to lose either.

It's a hotel, and it's the poshest in town, the most out of place suite on the highest level of the building. The hallway is dead silent, as if the entire floor is vacated, and she grips her saber in front of the door, her finger twitching nervously on the switch.

She could turn back still, and end this madness.

She could storm the room, and end _him_ and somehow she thinks he would let her.

But she doesn't have to knock, because he opens already, in civilian clothing and her eyebrows climb and climb and climb to her hairline at the sight of _that_.

He doesn't let it sink in though, because she's pulled roughly inside, and roughly against him and roughly her clothes are being discarded and then she is being fucked against the door, _finally,_ her legs crisscrossing high on his waist, his breath in her ear, his lips against her pulse, his dick pumping into her determinately.

He makes sure she comes before him, but it's a close call, and he was prepared, again, always, when he fills the condom and the regret at loss of skin-to-skin could be his or could be her own in their Bond, she doesn't know.

He walks them back to the bedroom, drops her down onto the giant, soft mattress, too gently for her taste, but then his teeth are on her, grounding her, and he is licking and sucking and slurping her down, obscene sounds unfit for the riches of the room, the splendid decor, the fine linens that he tries his hardest to soil.

Her mind drifts to how much this costs, how many portions or bacta or weapons they could buy with this, and he growls, and _bites_ the fleshy vulnerable part of her thigh, to remind her that she is _here,_ with _him,_ and he won't allow her to ruin this now and then he is back on her cunt and she just gives up, and comes all over his face, tired of the war, tried of refusing herself.

His whispered _how long do you have_ and her answer pull a satisfied grin to his face, something open, and a little boyish, and almost mischievious, and instead of fucking her again, he orders roomservice. They sit naked on the bed, and eat in silence, grinning into their food like two normal people carrying a naughty secret, not at all like the ruler of the galaxy and the opposing resistance fighter.

In her head, this is the fourth time, but in reality, they fuck and fuck and fuck until everything is blurry and disgusting and wonderful and her knees are wobbly and her cunt is puffy and raw and her heart is wild and open and free.

In the end, he kisses her goodbye at the door, soft, unhurried, lingering, and she really, _really_ has to go, but she doesn't want to.

Just like she doesn't want to admit that this round was definately his.

5

The fifth time is all hurried and barely hidden, crossed paths in a nondescript town on a remote backwater planet. She doesn't know if it's coincidence or if he really sought her out.

He sent her credits before, a shocking amount even and the address of a doctor specialized in implants, sworn to secrecy as he assures her. The nerve, the presumption angers her so much she refuses answer him for weeks.

Did he break down, and come to her then, at last?

The backalley reeks, a sharp contrast to the soft splendor of their last encounter, and she scratches him angrily while her lips are soft and desperate and needy on his.

_'We don't have time'_ she whines into his shoulder while his big hands work their magic on her cunt and reduce her knees to a shaking mess.

But he refuses to hurry with this, takes his time to stretch her diligently instead, and she's so wet, so so wet, and it's been so long, too long, since they've been last together.

She almost comes at his ministrations, but he drags his fingertips resolutely one last time against her clit, before turning her around roughly and pulling her leggings and panties down hastily.

One hand grips her hair and _pulls_ , his breath hot in her ear when he hisses _'I hope you got that implant, because I'm going to fuck you now against this wall, and I am going to come inside of you.'_

When did he pick up talking again, when did he decide he would no longer shut up?

His anger mirrors her own and she doesn't know whether it's his way of asking for permission or whether this is just another layer of torture, but she needs him, she needs him so much that everything else just falls away and she spreads her legs a little farther in answer, her leggings cutting into her thighs.

He exhales shakily, the fist in her hair drawing her head back against his and then he is entering her, slowly, but in one stroke, the stretch just barely on this side of pleasure, and the velvety skin of his dick the bliss her life is so sorely lacking otherwise.

When she is filled to the brink, he hasn't bottomed out, too large for her to fit, and yet, he fits just perfectly, and they are both panting hard at the feeling of closeness, of rightness, of just what they needed. The intoxicating feeling of skin-to-skin, finally, at least again, almost makes her come right there. The strain in his muscles is the only sign he's fighting a similiar battle.

And then he moves, the wet obnoxious slap of skin on skin loud and traiterous, and she gives up on trying to be covert and _howls_ to the moonless nightsky, uncaring if someone hears, or _sees_ them, the feeling of him inside her, no barrier, nothing that seperates them this very minute, heady and forbidden. His breath comes in short puffs and she imagines his face, drawn and intense while he pushes her cheek against the rough wall, surely in punishment for her refusal to answer him, to meet him.

_'Come for me Rey'_ his voice is husky, shaky, ' _and then I'll come inside you and you'll go back to your little resistance friends while my cum is leaking into your panties.'_

He is a nasty nasty man, Kylo Ren, although she suspects that the man burried inside her is more than that, that she helped creating the desperation, the bleak darkness in his tone.

She should be disgusted, at him, talking again, taunting her again, at his crude words, at herself, for letting him, but inside, her cunt clenches involuntarily, and he _groans._

_'What would they think if they knew, huh? If they knew their little Jedi is letting herself get fucked against the wall like this, by their enemy?'_

It's her biggest crime, and her biggest betrayal, and her biggest shame.

Yet her body refuses to acknowledge that, in fact, her hips cant back, a little higher, a little closer to him, inviting him to an even deeper angle.

_'Are you close Rey? I'm so close, so close sweetheart...'_

Her cunt is a traitor, a vice on his dick, and this time they both groan, and she is beyond words, beyond answering, so she sends him a mental picture over the Bond, how she used all of his credits to buy provisions, and ammunitions.

He howls in rage, and his hand flies to her clit, rubbing her precisely, just the way he knows she likes, _needs_ and she is helpless to protest, helpless to hold back and moans against the dirty wall, her orgasm shortcircuiting her brain, blissfully whiting out the reality of the stinking back alley.

If her friends could see her now, her spine arched, her ass bare and high up in the air, her _enemy_ buried deep inside her cunt, so deep, gripping her waist in a way that will leave five very wide, very distinctive bruises on her skin...

His hips slap against her ass one last time and then he makes good on his words, and comes inside her, long, laboriously, twitching in her tender cunt until he has no more to give and his forehead descends onto her shoulder, panting hard.

Just when her foggy mind catches up to what he just did, and her mouth hangs open in increduous outrage, working to find the words to scream at him, he sends her a mental picture of his last physical, how _he_ requested an implant, an inconspicuous tiny scar on his inner biceps.

It only manages to mollify her enough to not yell, but not enough to spare him another glance when she tries to clean up his mess – he came _so_ much- and walks back stiffly to her friends.

She hates losing.

+1

She refuses to answer him after his last stunt, her walls shutting him out completely, no cracks, no fractions, no openings.

This is it.

She even threw away their private little communicator, the traitorous device now long destroyed and gone from the camp.

She's the Jedi, and he is the enemy.

She will not pine.

She will blow him out of the sky, scewer him on her saber should he ever make the mistake of coming close to her again.

The days are long and bleak, the nights lonely and bleaker.

She trains on her own in the humid lush greenery, far, far outside camp, antsy to be alone, disgusted with the betrayal of her heart.

Trying to work herself to the mindnumbing exhaustion, she goes through her forms like a chore, until the sweat runs down her spine and her arms are pleasantly heavy.

Almost ready to head back, it's the distinctive whine of a Tie approaching that raises the fine whispy hair in her neck.

She grips her saber harder, and wipes her forehead.

So this is it.

This is how it all ends.

The Tie lands in front of her expertly, and she doesn't even wonder how he found her, because he would always find her, just like she could have always found him – just refused to do so.

The hydraulic hiss of the opening hatch raises goosebumps on her skin, and she raises Luke's saber, gritting her teeth, Ataru, just to piss him off.

But the man exiting the Tie is not Kylo Ren.

She stares at the loose undershirt, the wild hair, the open face, and her heart jumps once, twice... time stands still and then she notices she isn't breathing, and she draws one desperate breath, the saber falling from her hands and they are running, running towards each other, colliding in a kiss that is so long overdue.

How they manage to get naked in the blistering midday sun, how they manage to intertwine on the mossy soft ground of the jungle without ever breaking their kiss, she doesn't know, and she doesn't care, because his big hands cover every part of her, his big body drawfs her own and never has she felt safer, or more protected or more cared for.

But a moment later, when he enters her, his breath shaky and a little unsure, and her hands fly to his face and she kisses, kisses, kisses him, that, _that_ is what she was searching for, that is the most, the best, the safest one could ever feel and she never wants to leave this jungle ever again.

His arms circle her, and they are so close, moving together both tenderly, and hurriedly, and if it's her crying this time, she doesn't care anymore, because he rains a thousand little kisses across her cheeks, and her eyelids, and her temple.

He moves deep inside her, and her heart beats out of her chest, the pulse felt all across her body from her toes all the way up her spine to her neck, robbing her breath, robbing her voice. His big arms bracket and anchor her and she traces the little scar on his biceps, debating on biting the implant out, to hell with it all.

He smiles, his forehead against hers, his mind wide open to her, to her heart and their future, and what she sees there makes her see stars and then pushes her over the edge, quite suddenly, overwhelmingly, into white hot oblivion.

He drinks up every sound from her lips, catches every little grasp with his own and sends them all back when he comes inside her, arms, legs, mind wrapped around her.

After, they lie panting on the moss, kissing lazily, no words are needed anymore and she knows, _knows._

This time, they finally both win.


End file.
